Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Gripping the steering wheel so hard, my knuckles go white, I focus on the road.
By the time I pull into the driveway, the house is glowing with lights under the dusk sky. I step inside, the air warm and scented with roasted garlic and thyme, but quiet. I loosen my tie, my shoulders tight from a day of meetings I barely participated in.
“I’m home,” I call, my voice echoing off the polished hardwood.
Sara’s head pokes out from the kitchen, her blonde hair swinging around her face.
“What perfect timing,” she says, her smile bright, wiping her hands on a dish towel, and coming forward. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
I nod, scanning the space, my pulse ticking up. “Where’s Amelia?” The question slips out, too quick, too eager, and I curse myself for it, hoping Sara doesn’t notice.
She shrugs. “She’s tired. She said she’d eat in her studio tonight. It’s been a big day for her.”
Disappointment stabs into me, sharp and unexpected, but I mask it with a smile. “Sure, makes sense.” I move past her, toward the dining room, and the weight of Amelia’s absence settles like a stone in my gut. The table is set for three. Jason is already seated, his small hands folded, his solemn eyes lighting up when he sees me.
“Hey, Dad!” he chirps, and I smile, ruffling his dark curls.
“How’s your day been, buddy?” I ask, taking my place at the head of the table.
He tells me about his school project, his words tumbling quickly over each other, and I nod solicitously, but I’m only half-listening, my mind drifting to the studio upstairs, to Amelia alone with her paints and her grief.
Sara joins us, and Jason falls silent. Maria serves the food. Roasted lamb with mint sauce, creamed potatoes, and steamed asparagus glistening with butter. When Maria leaves, Sara’s chatter fills the silence—something about Jason’s teacher, a neighbor’s new dog. I eat mechanically, the lamb tender, the asparagus just right, but it’s tasteless, my thoughts locked on the woman who’s not here. When dinner is over, I feel relieved, eager to escape the wall of inane gossip that I have never found interesting.
Jason and I play a video game, then I read to him and tuck him into bed before going down to the swimming pool. Twenty laps later, I feel sufficiently tired to go to bed.
After a quick shower, I enter our bedroom. Sara’s in her nightgown, a soft blue silk that makes her skin glow. She is sitting in front of her vanity, rubbing night cream into her skin. Her movements are languorous and sensuous. She watches me in the mirror, her expression serene and untroubled as she picks up her hairbrush and starts brushing her hair. “I’m taking Amelia to my hairdresser tomorrow,” she says softly, “then we’re going shopping for clothes and shoes. I think it’ll be good for her to feel pampered, and you know, to revamp her wardrobe, her clothes are a bit plain and old-fashioned.”
Her words hit like a spark on dry tinder, and I can’t stop myself. Fury flares, hot and sudden, my hands freezing on the doorknob. “Leave her alone, Sara,” I snap, my voice low, venomous. “She’s fine just as she is.”
Sara turns, her brush pausing mid-stroke, her eyes wide with surprise. Sara turns on her stool and stares at me, her confusion palpable. I know my outburst is rare, a crack in the calm I’ve always shown her. She’s used to my silence, my indifference, but I can’t explain the reason for my lack of self-control without betraying the truth I’m barely holding back, but I hate how she makes me feel like I’ve struck her.
“I wasn’t unsubtle or cruel to her,” she says softly. “She was happy about it.”
I turn away, my jaw clenched tight. My chest is a furnace. The idea of Sara reshaping Amelia—her hair, her clothes, her essence—igniting a possessiveness I can’t justify. Amelia is perfect, her raw beauty a light I don’t want touched, not by Sara, not by anyone.
Sara sets the brush down, her movements slow, and crosses over to me, her hand resting lightly on my arm.
“I won’t take her if you don’t want me to. I’ll tell—”
“No, take her if she wants to go,” I cut her off.
“Max, come to bed,” she says, her voice lower now, a hint of something I haven’t heard in years. Her fingers slide up, grazing my chest, and I realize, startled, that she’s trying to initiate sex. We haven’t touched each other like this in—God, years, our marriage is a quiet arrangement of roles, not passion. I get peace and quiet to build my empire, and she gets to play house and shop till she drops. We are both allowed to indulge in discreet affairs, and I believe she has strayed a few times in the past, but I never have. No one has tempted me… until now. I step back, my body rigid, her touch foreign, utterly unwanted.